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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149001">it's like a heat wave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorGrimm/pseuds/DoctorGrimm'>DoctorGrimm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Awkward Sam Wilson, Community Organizer Joaquín Torres, Fluff and Smut, From Sex to Love, M/M, Talkative Joaquín Torres, Therapist Sam Wilson, food porn? idk man i'm just having fun w it, i'm sorry but it's not a real cuisine i hate that it's a category on opentable, inspired by terrible tinder dates, my bibliophile is showing, new american cuisine slander, service top versus service top</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:01:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149001</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorGrimm/pseuds/DoctorGrimm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A lukewarm Tinder date takes a hot turn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sam Wilson/Joaquín Torres</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Salt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The restaurant was upscale and stylish, or at least it looked that way in the pictures on Yelp. In person, it was so dark inside you could barely see your hands in front of you, let alone the retro-industrial lights and obscure art probably hanging from the walls. The waitstaff didn’t wear a uniform, which sort of bothered him. They all wore black, but some wore long sleeves and others wore tank tops. Some even wore shorts. The inconsistency was grating. </p><p>Sam looked down at his watch. 7:06pm. </p><p>He wasn’t used to dating. Not real, sit-down-to-dinner dating anyways. But he was thirty-seven and recently realized how empty his apartment felt without another person. His bookshelf only had his books on it. His family photos were faded and old. He had too many armchairs in his living room. But it wasn’t just his apartment. His car felt empty too, the back and passenger seats always void of anything except an occasional file from work. His weekends felt emptier and emptier as his friends slowly fell away, each retreating into new lives with new families. </p><p>Steve, during their weekly transcontinental phone call, suggested that Sam try out dating apps. “Not Grindr,” He specified, when Sam used that as an example of him putting himself out there. “Tinder or OkLover or one of those ones.” </p><p>“OkLover?”</p><p>“Isn’t that what it’s called?”</p><p>“It’s OkCupid.” Steve, the lucky bastard, never had to navigate modern dating. Him and Peggy had been a sure thing since high school. </p><p>“You know what I mean!”</p><p>So Sam got Tinder. He didn’t get OkCupid, only because the name sounded completely ridiculous. Who would want to be matched up by a Cupid who was only okay? Anyone who was settling for mediocrity wasn’t who Sam was looking for. </p><p>Who was he even looking for?</p><p>At this moment, he was looking for a mid-height twenty-seven year old with dark hair and a good jawline. One who was now eight minutes late for dinner.</p><p>He took a sip of water and double checked that there wasn’t any fluff or lint on his shirt. He looked a little like a high school principal with his shirt done all the way up, but this was how he wore it at work. With a tie, obviously. Would he look too Tony Montana if he took it down one button? He wasn’t used to this middle-ground. If he were out at a club, he would have no problem showing off his chest. Why was it different now? </p><p>He undid the top button of his plain blue shirt. What a whore. </p><p>Was being on time a generational thing? Was Sam old? At least he was wearing jeans, not khakis. Although, the khakis to jeans change had been last minute. </p><p>He was tempted to put in his drink order when a guy matching Joaquín's profile appeared at the hostess station. Sam lifted a hand lightly in response, trying to catch the younger man's attention. He didn’t. Instead, Joaquín delved into an animated conversation with the hostess without a glance towards the dining room. </p><p>At least he got a full body, non-digital view from his seat at their table. Joaquín moved his hands a lot as he spoke with the hostess and shifted plenty on his feet too. Sam prayed he wasn’t a knee-bouncer. He saw enough knee-bouncing during his day job. He didn’t need a whole dinner of it too. A whole dinner, feeling the small vibrations in the floor and the table. Of watching the water in his glass shake. Besides the busy body language, Joaquín was pleasant to watch. He didn’t have great posture, but it wasn’t terrible either. It was relaxed and genuine. Like he didn’t know anyone would ever be watching him. </p><p>Eventually, the hostess pointed Sam’s date in the right direction. After some well wishes, he turned and began walking towards the table. His outfit, green joggers and some kind of dark floral button-down, was not what Sam expected. And to think he almost wore khakis. </p><p>“Hi. You must be Sam,” Joaquín beamed, coming up to the table. He had a broad smile. Gentle. Bright. “Sorry for being late, I got held up at a work thing.”</p><p>“No worries.” Sam tried to give him a smile back. “Do you know her?” He nodded to the hostess station.</p><p>“Oh!” Joaquín laughed. Sam liked hearing it, but he also felt a little like the butt of a joke. “No. She’s very lovely though. Says we should try the chicken parm sliders? I don’t really see how those would be different from a Bojangles chicken biscuit, but hey? What do I know!” </p><p>He nodded and let his date settle into the seat across from him. Chicken parmesan sliders did sound like complete overpriced bullshit, and he couldn’t tell if Joaquín actually wanted to follow through with the hostess’ recommendation or not. Up close and personal, he could see that the guy really did have a perfect head of hair. Way better in person than in pictures. It looked thick and soft. Very easy to run a hand through. Or grab. But this was a real date, he reminded himself. Not some Grindr hookup. Although, even if he ended up hating this guy, who says he’d hate the sex too? </p><p>“So.” He quietly adjusted his dinner knife, aligning it with the vertical stripes of the napkin. “What kind of work do you do?” When Joaquín looked a little surprised, Sam tried to make it sound less harsh. “You said you got held up with a work thing, so I…”</p><p>“Yeah, of course!” Joaquín nodded but he was unfocused. Sam could feel him examining the rest of the restaurant and the patrons, taking stock of where the two of them fit in. “I’m an organizer,” He finally said. “At an immigration rights non-profit. I spend most of my time helping people find the resources they need. Protecting them. All that good stuff.” </p><p>“Wow. That’s great.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Joaquín looked at him for the first time since he sat down. Most people weren’t good at eye contact. Joaquín was. In a moment though, his eyes flickered away to the menu, then the candle on the table, then to Sam’s hands. “What about you? What do you do?”</p><p>“I’m a therapist, basically.” Counselor, really. “Mostly for vets and people with PTSD.”</p><p>“Wow. That sounds… hard.” </p><p>Sam shrugged. “What job isn’t?”</p><p>The waiter arrived, saving him from having to elaborate. They both ordered a beer, which was a relief. Beer, Sam knew. Beer, Sam drank with his friends. He wasn’t sure if it was date appropriate, but given his partner’s reaction, it was.</p><p>They went over some small talk. Sam was new to California, having spent his childhood in Louisiana and his young adulthood in New York. Joaquín was from Arizona. He came to California for college and never left. He said he missed Arizona. Sam nodded. He missed Louisiana. Despite how he rambled and fidgeted, Joaquín listened well. He listened like you were the only person he ever wanted to hear. </p><p>When the waiter came back with their beers, they put in their orders. The waiter flirted a little with Joaquín who easily flirted back. It felt rude, but Sam tried to ignore it. After some useless banter, Joaquín ordered the chicken parmesan sliders for an appetizer, explaining that he liked trying everything once. He gave Sam a shy wink when he added that. For his main course, he went for the scallops and farro. Rich palate for a community organizer. Sam just ordered the salmon and lentils. </p><p>Joaquín picked up the conversation where they left it off. Good memory, Sam noted. “My mom, my grandma, they’re both back in Arizona. It’s hard, being so far away. Not saying I want to give up my life here and move back, but… can’t say I haven’t thought about it.”</p><p>“Makes sense to me.” Truly, unfortunately, it did. “I almost moved in with my sister and my two nephews a few months ago,” Sam admitted. </p><p>By almost, he means he facetimed Sarah drunk one night and rambled about how he missed having a family. Unamused and half-awake at two in the morning eastern time, she reminded him that he did have a family, one that he could come and visit but chose not to. She told him to take and advil in the morning and not to call drunk at 2am again. </p><p>Joaquín laughed, but this time it felt warmer. “Why didn’t you?”</p><p>“Didn’t want to give up my lease.” </p><p>______</p><p>“It feels kind of like a job interview, I don’t know.”</p><p>“Oh, ew. He sounds boring.”</p><p>“No, it’s not that.” Joaquín put his phone down on the edge of the sink and started messing with his hair in the mirror. In the bathroom, he could finally hear the music being played in the dining room. The acoustics in the dining room were terrible. It didn’t help that Sam spoke quietly. Firmly, steadily, but quietly. “He’s just a curious one.”</p><p>His friend on the other side of the line chuckled. “At least he’s taking you out somewhere nice. Is he hot?”</p><p>“Oh,” Joaquín laughed. Were chest and arm muscles, visible even under a boring ass button-down, hot? Were dimples? What about those dark, watchful eyes? “You could say that.” </p><p>He made his way back to the table slowly, taking note of the different dishes and diners on the way. Everything smelled good, but nothing too outstanding to pick out. His nose searched for spices, but only found thyme and garlic. Good choices, of course, but he hoped for more. The appetizer he ordered, half on a whim and half to see if Sam was a cheapskate, absolutely sucked. Maybe the entree would be better. </p><p>They continued with bullshit small talk, only because Sam kept shutting down any interesting conversation. Joaquín tried asking about his job, his family, how he felt about the city’s awful public transit system, his favorite book, anything. He even asked if Sam had any wonky conspiracy theories he believed in. Anytime things became too personal, Sam would deflect. A quiet joke. Maybe a snide remark. He wasn’t a mean guy, Joaquín could tell that. He was even pretty funny. But he was guarded and cold and the most emotion Joaquín got out of him was about crustaceans.</p><p>“Crawfish? How are those different from crayfish?”</p><p>Sam rolled his eyes, but with a smile. “The difference is, if you call them crayfish in New Orleans, you’ll get clocked as a tourist.”</p><p>“Noted,” Joaquín laughed. “Keep going.”</p><p>Sam paused like he was going to pull away again, but he didn't. He kept going, softening as he spoke. “She’d boil them in this giant pot, maybe three, five gallons, outside in the yard. When it was done, we’d set up a picnic and hang out, eating crawfish, listening to the radio. Still don’t know what spices she used, but damn were they good.”</p><p>Sam looked relaxed for the first time all evening. It looked good on him. There was something noble and elegant about his features, Joaquín realized. He would have made a handsome king, once upon a time. The statues of him would have been smoking hot. </p><p>“So yeah.” Sam cleared his throat and straightened up. “I guess that was my favorite, uh, meal as a kid.” </p><p>“Technically, I didn’t ask that,” Joaquín teased and took a sip of beer. “I actually asked what you’d be eating on an typical Sunday afternoon when you were seven. But, you know, I guess I'll accept your favorite childhood meal as an answer.”</p><p>Again with that eye roll. It felt playful, even though Sam Wilson didn’t seem the playful type.</p><p>When entrees arrived, he tried not to look too disappointed. You can tell a lot about a dish by its color, and this plate of scallops looked tan and grey. Sam’s salmon hadn’t fared much better. Instead of being bright and pink, it was a dull orange. The lentils under it looked like mushy dog food. </p><p>The conversation was starting to peter out, and both of them ate quickly as if to hurry the date along. Maybe Sam didn’t mind the crappy salmon; he finished his plate without complaints. Joaquín finished too, but that was only because he hated turning down free food. </p><p>When the waiter returned, asking about dessert or another round of beers, both men quickly declined. At least they were on the same page. Sam took the check smoothly and casually, without a hint of hesitation. Joaquín tried not to find the confidence attractive, since he did expect Sam to pay for the dinner he definitely couldn’t afford, but he did anyways. </p><p>It was a shame this guy was looking for love, or at least some kind of relationship. Love was definitely not in the cards for a pair like them. Talk about no chemistry. Something else though, something more physical, Joaquín would have gladly taken Sam up on. </p><p>“Did you drive or walk or…?” Sam asked, picking up his coat. When he stood up, Joaquín had to doubletake. Even dressed like a Best Buy employee, you could tell he had a good body. An excellent body, even.</p><p>“No, I…” There was definitely a perfect ass hiding under those jeans. “I took the subway.”</p><p>“I can walk you to the station, if you want. It’s on my way home.”</p><p>Joaquín always liked the city at this time of night. Any earlier and the streets were too busy with people coming home from work, going out, running errands. Any later and it got eerie. You could feel people asleep in their homes. This in-between period, when everyone was brushing their teeth and patting their dogs goodnight, was perfect. </p><p>They were both quiet, but Joaquín didn’t mind. It was the first comfortable silence all night. He wondered if Sam was listening to the city too. </p><p>“Thank you for dinner,” Joaquín offered once they got to the subway station. “It was great.”</p><p>“That was... one of the worst restaurants I’ve ever been to.” He said it so deadpan, so nonchalant, it took Joaquín a moment to register that Sam hadn’t politely agreed with him. He must have looked as surprised as he felt, because Sam laughed. It was low and rumbling and wonderful. “I’m sorry, I just mean –”</p><p>“No.” Joaquín put his hand on Sam’s arm. “It was awful.”</p><p>They stood at the top of the underground’s entrance and laughed together. </p><p>“I’m really sorry," Sam finally said. You could tell he was sincere. "It had good reviews.”</p><p>“You should never take a first date somewhere new.” </p><p>“I guess not.” </p><p>“Well." It was getting cold. He should have worn a heavier coat. "I’ll be seeing you, Sam Wilson.”</p><p>He turned and started down the stairs. It was early enough that his friends probably hadn’t gone out yet. He could join them. Spend the night cruising for a man to take home and never see again. A normal Friday.</p><p>“Joaquín!”</p><p>He stopped and turned back. Sam Wilson, at the top of the stairs, looked like he was about to shit himself. “Are you still hungry?” He asked, hands in his pockets.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>will i be naming each chapter after spices? is this a food fic? yes and yes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Coriander</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>baklava &amp; chill?</p><p>bumped the fic up to an E rating just in case but tis a very weak E rating</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam took him to a nearby falafel shop. </p><p>Inside the shop, there was barely enough room for the counter, the door, and the two of them. There weren’t any chairs or tables or even a soda fridge. It was like a food truck, but inside. Joaquín wondered if the tiny place even met firecode. </p><p>Sam seemed more comfortable on their walk over. When Joaquín teased him about his taste in restaurants, he joked about leaving him behind. He was a surprisingly daring street-crosser and jaywalker, which Joaquín appreciated since he was too. The way Sam walked, you would have thought the roads were paved for him, not cars. Joaquín liked it. </p><p>He wasn’t sure why Sam changed his mind or even what he really wanted from this detour. Most likely, Sam didn’t know either. Joaquín doubted he did things like this very often. Spontaneous things, that is. He seemed like someone who found comfort in expectations. </p><p>At the falafel shop, he greeted the middle-aged woman behind the counter with a bright smile. </p><p>“You had us worried,” She teased, shaking her head. “Six days! That’s too long.”</p><p>“I know, I know.” He glanced quickly towards Joaquín. “I was busy.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure.” She also shot a peek at Joaquín, then gave Sam a knowing smile. She was beautiful, although petite and wrinkled with age. Her hijab, pearl white, was traced with elegant gold embroidery. </p><p>“Okay, well.” Joaquín could have sworn Sam was blushing. The soft chuckle from the shopowner confirmed it. “Could we get two number fours?” </p><p>As the woman went into the backroom, Joaquín leaned against the counter, giving Sam a nice pose while he took in the shop’s decor. Orange paint. Worn linoleum floors. Vacant spaces in the display case that were probably populated by pastries and pre-packaged meals during more normal business hours. A corkboard pinned with guitar lesson offers, lost dog posters, and some information about upcoming social activism events. He noticed an LGBTQIA+ veteran-specific meeting, and he wondered if Sam had anything to do with organizing that. </p><p>Most of Joaquín’s friends favored Grubhub and UberEats. Sure, they would go out to bars or restaurants, but it was always an event. They never just stopped by their favorite hole-in-the-wall for a quick bite to eat. Not like this. He was jealous, suddenly, of Sam. Not in a bad way, but jealous nonetheless.</p><p>“So you come here often?” He asked, fully aware of its double-entendre as a pickup line. </p><p>Sam looked at him. As if by accident, as if betrayed by his own body, he gave Joaquín a onceover. Don’t look away, Joaquín wanted to say. Keep looking, if you want. But Sam didn’t. He looked back to the menu board. Even when he glanced back to Joaquín’s face, it didn’t have the same heat and hunger to it.</p><p>“I try to. Apparently not hard enough.” He gestured to where the woman had been standing a moment ago. “But yeah, usually come here once or twice a week.”</p><p>Joaquín nodded. This was more than Sam taking the don’t-take-a-first-date-somewhere-new advice to heart. This was intimate. A peek into his life, his home. He felt sheepish, suddenly. Like Sam had accidentally undressed in front of him. </p><p>“The falafel must be good then.”</p><p>Sam shrugged, smirking. </p><p>“You know one time I tried to make falafel? Didn’t end well.” </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know what I did wrong but the patties totally disintegrated when I tried to cook them. Turned into little puddles. Basically ended up making chickpea soup. Complete disaster.”</p><p>“Did you use canned chickpeas?” The woman emerged from the kitchen with two small paper bags.</p><p>“I did!” </p><p>“That was your mistake.” She handed Sam the bags of food. They were steaming and smelled wonderfully of garlic and parsley. “Next time, use dried chickpeas. Soak them for a day before you cook though.” She gave Joaquín a little wink, and he felt himself grin. He hoped he passed her test, not that it really mattered. None of this did, he tried to tell himself.</p><p>The backdoor opened again, and a man came out with a plastic box in his hands. “Sam!” He laughed, setting the box on the counter and pushing it towards Joaquín’s date. There was baklava inside, a huge slice big enough for five. The woman shook her head, annoyed and endeared in a way only a spouse could be. The man was about the same height as her, with a round, bald head. “We have extra,” He explained with a grin. “And you have a friend with you! I’m sure he would enjoy some dessert.”</p><p>“C’mon, I can’t–”</p><p>“We’ll throw it out otherwise!”</p><p>Sam gave the woman’s husband a playful, chastising look. It was the same one he gave Joaquín when he joked about Sam’s taste level. The guy held up his hands in defense while his wife just looked at Joaquín as if to say <em>look at our two jokers</em>. </p><p>“Okay,” Sam finally agreed. “But I’m paying you back for it next time.”</p><p>“Sure, sure! Of course!” </p><p>They walked a block before sitting down with the food on the steps of a townhouse. When Joaquín asked if the tenants would be annoyed to have two randos blocking their front stoop, Sam laughed. “Probably not,” He said. “Since I’m one of them.”</p><p>“Ah, so that’s why you like that place. Convenience.” </p><p>“Eat your damn pita and you’ll see why I like that place.”</p><p>They sat next to each other on the steps, knees almost touching but not. Sam waited, eyes fixed on Joaquín as he tried the sandwich for the first time. </p><p>The bread was thin, but not too floury or dry. He bit through a falafel, then tasted the tahini and diced tomatoes decorating it. He sensed red onion somewhere inside, but hadn’t gotten any in that first bite. The warmth and texture of the falafel, cut by the coolness of the toppings, made his mouth feel satisfied and deprived at the same time. Yeah. He saw why Sam liked that place.</p><p>“Good?” </p><p>Joaquín looked back at Sam, whose tight forehead betrayed his concern. “Yeah. Good.” </p><p>“Good enough to make up for dinner?”</p><p>“Maybe,” He smiled, and took another bite. Sam didn’t have to make up for anything, but the question made his mind start racing with ideas. Still, he kept those ideas to himself for now. </p><p>“We should try the baklava,” Joaquín suggested once they had both finished off their sandwiches. </p><p>“Right. I forgot about that.” Sam opened up one of the crumpled paper bags and dug around inside with his hand. “Naz usually drops forks in the bag…” </p><p>“Or we could go inside. To your place.” He looked up the steps at the doorway behind them. Sam did say he lived here. “You must have plates and forks and all that, right?”</p><p>Sam paused, a coy smile or maybe a frown playing at his lips. It was impossible to tell what that man was thinking. Joaquín considered himself pretty adept at that, and yet Sam’s thoughts had been escaping him all night. Was he offended? Surprised? Nervous? Confused? Maybe he lied. Maybe he didn’t even live here. He didn’t seem like a liar though.</p><p>“Yeah. I have those,” He said finally. “But you only have to come up if you want to.”</p><p>Joaquín did.<br/>
__________

</p><p>On the way to the subway station, Sam had plotted the rest of his night. He would grab some food, sit down in front of the TV to watch soccer or something else mindless, and eventually doze off. He’d wake up around 3am, feel momentarily confused why he was on the couch, in his clothes, with the TV on. He would have a glass of water, then change and crawl into bed. Maybe not though. Maybe he’d sleep on the floor or go back to the couch. He would decide then, he supposed.</p><p>He didn’t know he wanted Joaquín to join him until he was calling out to him. Until suddenly, they were walking down the street towards one of his favorite places in the city. </p><p>“You read Arabic?” Joaquín pointed to a row on his bookshelf. </p><p>“You surprised?” Sam set down the plate on the coffee table. </p><p>“No.” Joaquín smiled and shook his head. “Impressed. How many languages <em>do</em> you know? I see books in Russian and Spanish up here too.”</p><p>“When you work in intelligence, it helps to know the languages.” </p><p>He watched as Joaquín browsed the rest of his small library. Occasionally, he would stroke the leather spine of a book or gently pull one out of its place with his fingers. He was gentle and attentive. He didn’t seem like someone who focused very well, yet here he was. Examining at Sam’s books like they were the most mesmerizing artifacts in the world. As he reached up or stretched out an arm, the muscles on his biceps and forearms would ripple. Sam wanted to touch them, the gentle and inquisitive way Joaquín now touched his <em>Anna Karinina</em>, his <em>Luna e i Falò</em>, his ancient copy of <em>Hopscotch</em>. He wanted to learn this man, the way he flipped open books to random pages to learn them. </p><p>When he was satisfied, he joined Sam on the couch. </p><p>“I like this plate,” He noted, a finger tracing the short lip of their shared dessert plate. “It’s very modern.” </p><p>“I didn’t realize plates could be modern.”</p><p>“Anything can be modern if it tries hard enough,” Joaquín smiled. It made no fucking sense, but Sam loved hearing him say it anyways. He could say a jumble of made up words and Sam would still like it. </p><p>“Shall we?” He picked up his fork, and Joaquín did the same. </p><p>They both took a forkful off of their respective corners of the square slice of baklava, afraid of getting too near to the other person’s territory. Even though this was only a slice of the original piece, most of which was now in the fridge, it was a huge amount of pastry. He doubted they could finish it. </p><p>Joaquín moaned as he finished his first bite. “Damn.”</p><p>Sam didn’t respond. He hadn’t even tried the baklava yet. The drop of honey lingering on Joaquín’s bottom lip had distracted him. Sweetness, promised. Messy, floral sweetness. A finger could wipe it off, or a tongue. A drop of honey, waiting, waiting, waiting to be tasted. </p><p>Joaquín let him stare for a minute. Then, he kissed Sam, soft and slow. Uncertain. When he pulled back, Sam gently took Joaquín's face in his hand and dragged his thumb across Joaquín’s lower lip. He licked the honey off its tip, as soft and slow as Joaquín had been with him. When it was all gone, only the taste left in his mouth, he leaned in and kissed him back. </p><p>The uncertainty was gone. Only hunger and curiosity remained. As Joaquín undid the buttons of Sam’s shirt, he wrapped every inch of Sam’s chest with his fingers, his lips, his breath. He ran his hands along Sam’s shoulders like they were marble. He touched Sam’s ribs like he was Adam. There was a brightness to his touch. A warmth. <em>Devour me</em>, he pleaded. <em>Please.</em> </p><p>When it was his turn to undress Joaquín, he was more patient and methodical. Joaquín squirmed, sure that Sam was teasing him by going so slowly. No, he kissed into the soft skin of Joaquín’s stomach. I am learning you, he kissed into the notch of Joaquín’s waist. He smelled like vanilla and seafoam. </p><p>“Tell me what you want.”</p><p>“What I want?”</p><p>“Yes, Sam. Tell me what you want.”</p><p>When he told Joaquín he wanted his mouth, he gave it to him. He kissed his way up Sam’s thighs while his hands started massaging the base of his cock. He looked up at Sam. “Do you want this?”</p><p>“Yes,” He breathed, trying to hold back a gasp. “Please.”</p><p>Joaquín smiled. He kissed the tip of Sam’s cock. Then, he made love to it. There was no other way to describe it. When Sam managed to look down, Joaquín’s eyes were shut in concentration, like a musician listening to his instrument. He used every part of his mouth, his hands, his soul. When Sam finished, stunned and shuddering, Joaquín smirked up at him. Smug. </p><p>Sam was not to be outdone. After a moment of respite, he led Joaquín to his bedroom. </p><p>“Tell me what you want,” He whispered. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”</p><p>When Joaquín said he wanted Sam, he gave it to him. He fucked Joaquín every way he knew how, in languages he didn’t know, to music he was hearing for the first time. </p><p>Sometime between midnight and sunrise, they both fell asleep, wrapped and tangled with each other in a mess of sheets. For the first time in a long time, Sam slept through the night. When he woke, Joaquín was gone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>not to be ~academic~ but i had to do a paper recently on how sensuality can be portrayed in cinema (specifically about Tampopo, which i would recommend to everyone) and it was really fun to try and implement some of the (debatably weird) things i was writing about in that paper in this chapter! i hope it's as fun to read as it was to write. </p><p>also ft. my current book faves Hopscotch and The Moon and The Bonfires on Sam's bookshelf -- both worth a read! Both pretty sad n fucked up though. lolz! if anyone reads them, hmu so we can nerd out about them &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this was meant to be a quick little one-shot, but oops now I have like eight chapters planned so ha ha</p></blockquote></div></div>
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